0
ENG 191
[Anónimo]
“The Monarchs,
an Ode for Congress ”
1823
Cítese como: [Anónimo]. “The Monarchs, an Ode for Congress”.1823. Edición Proyecto POETRY 15, 2018. Archivo Electrónico de Fuentes Primarias, Cód. ENG 191.
http://www.uniovi.es/proyectopoetry15/index.php
1 WHEN Congress (heav’nly maid!) was Young,
While scarcely yet Rossini sung, The Monarchs oft, to flesh the sword,
Throng’d around the festive board;
Exulting, carving, hobbing, nobbing, Possess’d of what they’d all been robbing.
By turns they felt each other’s crown, Disturb’d. delighted, rais’d, pull’d down;
Till once, ‘tis said, when all were maudlin, Fill’d with Rhenish, flouncing, twaddling,
From the supporting statesmen round They snatch’d the first pens that they found,
And as they once had learnt apart Sweet lessons of the pot-book art, Each (for madness rul’d the hour) Would prove his own didactic power.
First Fred, his hand, it’s skill to try, Upon the foolscap wilder’d laid, And back recoil’d, he knew not why,
At the remarks himself bad made,
Next Alec, rush’d; his eyes, on fire, In wanderings own’d their secret stings;
In one plain word, he play’d the liar, And wrote the hurried hand of kings.
2 With woeful scrawl came poor old Frank;
Low stupid things his grief beguil’d;
A solemn, strange, and mingled crank;
‘Twas sad in Ps, in Qs ‘twas wild.
But thou old boy, with pies so rare, What was the delight, Des-Huîtres!
Still it whisper’d—“Spain—they’ll beat her!”
And bade the bully boys at distance hail:
Still would his munch the fish prolong, And still from creams, and cakes, and ale, He cull’d a finish still, although ‘twas wrong:
And where his tiddest bit he chose,
Soft Montmorency’s voice came blessing through the nose, And old Des-Huîtres smil’d, and waiv’d the chaplain’s prayer.
And longer had he din’d; but with a groan The Duke came saying “Oh!”
He threw his blood-stain-d sword in wonder down, And with a withering look,
The war-denouncing tumpet took, And shook a shake so drear of head, Was ne’er pacific skull so full of No!
And ever and anon he beat The devil’s tattoo with curious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Dangy at his side,
3 Her man-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his sad and alter’d mien,
While each gulp’d oath and curse seem’d bursting to be said.
Thy numbers, Armament, to nought were fix’d, Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix’d, And now it call’d “To Arms!” now raving said,
“No,—wait.”
With eyes up-turn’d, as one amaz’d, James Monro sat aloof, and gaz’d;
And from his calm sequester’d seat, (A place by distance made more sweet) Sent through the newsman’s born his free-born soul:
And dashing oft from kindred ground Doubling journals join’d the sound:
Through courts and camps the better measures stole, Or in some patriot’s themes, with fond delay,
Round an awful calm diffusing, Love of peace, and letter’d musing,
Their useful murmurs plied away.
But oh! how finished was the happy tone, When brave San Miguel, Spaniard good and true,
(His No! to all the monarchs flung, His face on fire, yet laughing too)
Read that inspiring Note, with which the Cortes rung!
4 The Freeman’s truth, to freemen only known!
Portugal sped it’s chaste-eyed Queen;
Writers and Liberty-Boys were seen Peeping their prison-bars between;
Brown Italy rejoic’d to hear,
And courts leap’d up, and seiz’d their hats for fear.
Last came Greece’s crowning trial:
She, by painful steps advancing,
Had first to foreign lands her pray’rs addres’d;
But soon she stood upon her own denial, The noble voice fair Freedom lov’d the best They would have thought who heard the sound,
They saw in Marathon her ancient men Crushing the turban’d slaves again, For all their mighty pomp and prancing;
While as the flying Turks kiss’d their steeds’manes, Russ left with Pruss their strange, fantastic ground:
Free were our presses seen, our trade unbound, And Frank, amid their frolic play, As if he knew no longer what to say, Shook heaps of powder from his head and brains.
O Freedom, self-defended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom’s aid, Why, goddess, why, so long denied,
Bid not these idler’s stand aside?
5 In the Old World, in the New,
You’ve shewn us what your will can do, And why then longer waste a thought On full-grown boys, that won’t be taught?
Where is thy native, simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time, Self-sufficing, pure, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age, Fill thy recording children’s page:
‘Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest friends could more prevail,
And talk’d in Greek of finer things, Than all which charms the ear of kings, Aye, all together, meek and slaughterly, Bob, Chateaubriand, and the Quarterly.
O bid their vain endeavours cease;
Complete the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state, And clip the tails that kings think great.
